Deathstroke and The Punisher: Ambush
by BLAKKSTONE
Summary: Slade Wilson, Deathstroke The Terminator is hunting down The Punisher. There will be blood. And bullets. And death.
1. Chapter 1

**Deathstroke and The Punisher: Ambush**

_**Deathstroke**_** belongs to DC/WB.**

_**Punisher**_** belongs to Marvel Disney.**

**Author's note: this story is not connected to any of my other stories. It's not connected to any canon. It's stand alone.**

**The Bronx, derelict tenement,**

**Night Time**

"Look, motherfucker, that ain't what the deal was!"

"Terms change! Adapt or die, man!"

"Fuck that shit! "

The already tense atmosphere in the apartment got even worse. Eight men, four from the buyers and four from the sellers pulled out their automatic pistols. Glocks and Berettas.

One of the buyers: "This is how I do business. I bring half the cash, check the shit out and if it's good, get the other half."

The sellers: "We gonna have a problem, then, 'cause..."

Someone knocked on the door. Everyone froze and pointed their guns at the door.

A buyer: " The fuck? Thought this building was empty?"

One of them went over to the door. The other seven aimed their guns at the door.

"Try not to cap my ass," the man heading for the door said.

Someone said: "No promises."

And as he approached the door and put his eye to the peephole, something unusual happened. A large sword pierced the door and the man's head.

"What the fuck!"

"Fuck this shit! Kill that motherfucker!"

Seven pistols went off. By that time, the sword had been withdrawn and the volley of rounds caught the nearly decapitated man before he fell lifeless, broken, boneless on the floor. More slugs went through the flimsy door. Over 100 rounds fired in all. The small apartment was turned into a war zone.

Magazines went dry. Pistols were reloaded.

The seven remaining men were still aiming their guns at the now perforated door.

"Who the fuck," a man said.

"Ho, shit, I think I know who did this shit!" Another said.

A new voice: "Really? Who?"

All seven turned towards the sound of the new arrival, towards the window leading to the fire exit.

"Motherfucker," a seller said.

A man was standing there. He was wearing dark blue, mostly: his body armor and boots and fatigue pants and the right hand side of his mask. His gloves, belt and holsters and the left hand half of his solid ballistic mask. That was orange. Heavily armed, armored and holding a large sword.

"'Motherfucker ' is only one of the names I go by," the intruder said, "Also: 'asshole', 'heartless prick', but usually, I call myself..."

"Deathstroke," a seller said.

"Bingo!" Deathstroke said.

"Fuck him up!" a drug buyer said.

"I was hoping you'd say that," said Deathstroke.

In less than a second, he was on one of the drug dealers and chopped his head off. The one next to the headless one was cut diagonally through his torso. The top half slid off.

Then, Deathstroke was in the air and spinning. A roundhouse kick connected with a jaw and the man's head did a 270 degree spin, destroying the neck completely. Before he touched the ground, the mercenary sent a spinning heel that caught another pusher in the sternum, driving broken pieces of rib cage through vital organs and sending that man flying through a plaster wall into a neighboring apartment.

Two throwing knives went into the foreheads of two more drug dealers.

That left one. One of the buyers. The one holding the briefcase full of money.

"Man, look," the money man said, "There's a hundred thousand dollars in this briefcase, take it and let me go."

"Hm. That's not a bad offer."

"More where that came from, man. Whatever you gettin' paid, I can-"

"I'm not getting paid," Deathstroke said.

"What?"

"I was in a nearby apartment trying to read. You guys made noise. Broke my focus. I knocked on the door. To ask you to keep it down. I was kinda hoping you were violent scumbags so I could get a workout. Clear my head, you know?"

"What?"

Deathstroke sighed. "Never mind. Just shoot me and let's get this over with."

"You fuckin' crazy, man, fuck this!"

The man dropped his gun and attempted to reach the door.

Deathstroke drew a massive .50 Action Express Desert Eagle and shot the man in the head. Once was enough. The man went down, with half his skull missing.

"Barely worth the trouble, but I needed the exercise," Deathstroke said.

Even in this part of town, the cops would show up. Slade Wilson, Deathstroke, decided to go back to his apartment, pack up and leave. He had to pick another place and be gone before the cops showed. With the briefcase full of money. He shrugged. _What the hell. Money is money._

**No Name Hotel**

**The Bronx**

Weapons and armor removed and cleaned, Wilson sat down on the bed and looked at a thick file. On the folder, it read: "The Punisher."

Without his mask and armor, Slade Wilson was 60 year old, silver haired, goatee wearing white man in exceptional physical shape. With an eye patch over his right eye.

Slade Wilson looked at Frank Castle's file. He memorized ever detail. It combined all the information he could get. FBI. CIA. US Marshalls. The United States Marine Corps.

He had to know everything about his prey before the hunt.

Frank Castle. Born in New York City from Italian immigrants who changed the name from Castligione. Served three tours in Vietnam with the jarheads. Sniper. Highly decorated. He came home physically in one piece.

Castle came home to his wife, daughter and son. Maria. Junior. Lisa. During a family picnic, the Castle family is caught between warring mafia factions. Only Frank survived. After the police failed in arresting those responsible, Castle became the Punisher. A vigilante. He killed everyone that was involved in his family's death. He's been at it since.

Slade read about every single hit Castle did as the Punisher. Confirmed or suspected. There were thousands of pages worth of info. Slade went over them only once and very quickly. He needed no more.

Slade was enhanced. A top secret experiment gave him powers decades ago: accelerated healing, super-strength and speed and increased mental skills. That added to decades of training and experience as a soldier and as a mercenary and he became the world's best and most feared assassin.

Slade understood Castle. They were cut from the same cloth: war and loss. Slade lost his two sons to violence. His marriage has fallen apart. He even lost an eye. That understanding of Castle made him especially qualified to hunt the Punisher down.

His plan would require time and patience. He couldn't fail.

This hunt was personal.


	2. Chapter 2

**A month later**

**New York City**

**Midnight**

Another typical evening from The Punisher.

The four men playing poker in the back room of a bar barely had time to understand as they say the intruder barge in. Tall. White. Black haired and blue eyed. Big bullet proof vest with a skull painted on it. Armed with a suppressed, M-4 stock pressed against his shoulder, he got to work quickly.

The man with his back to him took two .223 in the back of the head. The slugs caused enough damage to his skull to splash his friends with blood and brains. A second of shock that caused them to freeze.

An eternity.

The one on his right took two rounds in his forehead.

The one on the left tried to get up and grab a pistol that was on the poker table. Two in the heart, one in the middle of the face.

"Hey, man, hey," the last one, putting his hands up, "Look, man, I give up, okay?"

"Do I look like a cop?" Castle said.

"I know why you're here, man."

"Tell me."

"The girls. You came to rescue the girls."

"Where are they?"

"Upstairs."

"Let's go. You first."

The bar was under an apartment. A loft.

When they reached it, Castle saw the two goons guarding the door.

"What the fuck!" One of them said, reaching for a gun under his jacket.

One .223 bullet shattered the would-be-shooter's wrist and two more went into his heart.

The other one had his gun out and was about to aim. A slug went into the other potential shooter's shoulder. Another in his throat, to cut off the scream and a final one in the forehead.

"Fuck me," Castle's unwilling guide said.

"Go," Castle said simply.

The man dug keys out of his pocket and opened the door. And led the way inside.

Castle saw them. The girls. The slaves. Some barely out of their teens. Skinny. Pale. Obviously addicted to drugs. On filthy mattresses. Some were handcuffed to pipes. A dozen of them.

"See?" The thug said. "I cooperated. So, am I free to go?"

"Yeah."

Then Castle turned around, shot the man in the groin. The man collapsed his scream turning into a squeal, clutching his ruined manhood.

"Free to go to _hell_."

And Castle shot him in the forehead.

The women looked at Castle. He knew he wasn't helping them cope with the ordeal. Watching someone murder others rarely did anyone any good. He knew that very well.

One of the women who wasn't handcuffed got up and walk towards Castle. She was sickly.

"Can...can we... go?"

"Yes."

Castle freed the others. He then pulled out a small two way radio.

"We're coming out," he said.

He led the way to a cubic moving truck. Behind the wheel was a white, blonde man in his 30s. Just one of Castle's many law enforcement contacts. Detective Quinn. A man who owed Castle his life and volunteered to be one of his informants. Quinn had told The Punisher about this place.

Inside, there was water, some clothes, some food. Medicine. And money to cover the medical expenses at the hospital.

Castle told one of the women, the one who had spoken earlier that the truck would take them to a hospital, that the man at the wheel would put them in touch with people who could her and the others.

"Thank you," she said. And smiled. Very briefly.

Castle nodded. She went in the truck. Castle went over to the driver. They went over the cover story.

"I got it, don't worry, Frank," Quinn said.

"Good. I'll be in touch."

The Punisher was turning away.

"Frank," Quinn called.

Castle turned back.

"Ya did good. You helped these girls, man."

Castle said nothing and turned back and walked away. He heard the truck motor away. The Punisher went to his van. He knew he hadn't made a serious dent in human trafficking. He had no long lasting hope for these women. At least, they had a chance.

One of the cell phones on the passenger seat vibrated. He looked at it.

_Usual place. Urgent. _

Castle exhaled. Sack time would have to wait. No rest for the wicked.

**Central Park**

**Shortly**

A sixty something year old white man in a grey suit was waiting for him sitting on a bench. It was a high ranking member of the Justice Department. And someone whose life Castle saved in Vietnam.

Castle sat next to him. He was wearing a long black trench coat to cover his weapons and armor.

"Captain," the man said.

"Lieutenant," Castle said.

Lieutenant handed Castle a USB stick.

"Frank, basically, I'm here to waste my time. I'm here to tell you not to use the Intel on that drive."

"Why?"

"Why am I wasting my time or-"

"Both."

Lieutenant sighed. Then: "There will be a big gathering of some of the most prominent criminals in the United States and the world. Four days from now. You have the names and the details on that drive. Bikers. Camorra. Yardies. Columbians. Triads. East Europeans. Whatever outfits you haven't decimated on the East Coast."

"I heard that on the street. Rumors, mostly."

"I can confirm it. Surveillance. Undercover ops. Which I worked hard to pull out. It's solid."

"Good."

"It's obviously a trap, Frank."

"Sure."

"For you."

"Yeah."

"Whenever one of these big shindigs happens, it's always an ambush for the Punisher. It always turns into a fucking slaughter."

"Not my fault they never learn."

"As opposed to you?"

Castle said nothing.

"Look, Frank. When are you gonna stop falling for these traps?"

"When they stop setting them up."

"_You're_ the one being set up, goddamnit! If they'd wanted to keep it a secret we would never have found out about it!"

"So, I have to go."

"The place is gonna be fortified. Over 200 hardened criminals! Plus they called in a small army of mercs to handle security!"

"The more, the merrier."

"Hey, I don't wanna underestimate you. You've done some impossible shit before. This is stretching it! If you had a few weeks prep time, maybe. Four days..."

"Can't waste any time, then,"

"Jesus Christ. You're hopeless."

Castle stood up.

"Everything's hopeless," he said. "Thanks for this. Take care."

"Yeah. Sure." The Lieutenant stood up as well and both men went their separate ways.

Castle's former comrade was right. Four days was not enough time to be ready to take them out. And be ready to deal with whatever he's going to face over there. But. Many scumbags all in one place.

It was too tempting.

He was only human.


	3. Chapter 3

**Undisclosed location**

Deathstroke, fully outfitted, was facing a small group of people. Six in all. Three men. Three women.

It was a war room. There were models. Maps. Plans. Faces and names on boards and large screens.

"Four days until D-Day, people," Wilson said.

One of the women in the room spoke: "We're sure he's gonna show up?"

Slade, two other men and the other two women looked at her.

One of the two men: "He'll show. He can't possibly resist this opportunity."

The woman: "But, it's suicide."

The other of the two staring men: "He doesn't care. It's how he's wired. Maybe he dies, maybe he won't. He'll be there."

"Big summit of high profile crime lords like this, from all of the country," the first staring man said, "He can't miss it. You read his file."

The women who had spoken was still skeptical.

Another woman: "You don't know him like we do."

The last woman: "It's in his very nature. I'm sure you understand."

The first woman: "I do. I suppose he'd at least check it out to see if he actually could do this."

The last man, who hadn't spoken yet: "I've said this before. That guy has such an insane rep, I wanna see that up close and personal."

"You will," Slade said, "And The Punisher will get what's coming to him. Big time."

**D-DAY, EARLY MORNING**

**Somewhere in Massachusetts**

In a small motel room rented under an assumed name, Frank Castle was looking, once again, at the Intel his contact had given him.

The names. The crews. The mercs handling security.

And satellite pictures. It was a very large mansion not very far from where Castle was positioned. His source said fortified. That was an understatement.

Impregnable was more like it.

Ten feet walls. Roving patrols. Cameras. Infra red. Motion detectors.

More importantly, 30 crime lords accompanied by lieutenants and body guards plus 50 mercs.

Close to 300 targets.

Castle showed up heavily armed. A typical looking van. Armored. He carried a SAW machine gun. LAW rockets. An MM-1 40 mm grenade launcher. All in the van. On him, he had hand grenades and his .45 1911 side arms. Also, an M4 Carbine also fitted with a 40 mm launcher. But nothing short of an air strike could even hope to make a dent in what he was looking at. If only he had a couple more days...But he didn't.

A knock on the door. A second later, a piece of paper is slid underneath. His M4's stock pressed against his shoulder, he ducked and rolled away from the door. Barrel aimed at the door. Still crouching, he crept over to the door and grabbed the paper. He listened. Nothing. There was a message on the sheet.

"Mister Castle, welcome. Main entrance."

_Here it comes,_ Castle thought. _The ambush. Better get ready._

Armed and armored, The Punisher, leading with his M4, finger on the trigger guard, went to the Motel's main entrance. His senses were alert. He covered every angle possible in his crouch walk. There were cars in the parking lot he hadn't seen the night before. Black SUVS mostly. There could be an army of hit men waiting for him. There could be a sniper a mile away waiting to take him out as well. That would be the smart way to do it.

There was nothing. There was no one. Just eerie silence.

Finally, the main entrance. He had 30 rounds and a 40 mil high explosive projectile to give them before having to switch weapons. Or die.

Blinds on all the windows. They could have started shooting through the glass. Still nothing. The door could be booby trapped. No way to tell.

Do or die.

Castle stood and kicked the main door open, dove in and rolled. What he heard went above and beyond any expectation:

"_SURPRISE_!"

Castle did something he rarely ever does: he froze.

Deathstroke The Terminator was standing in front of him, fully armored except his mask, surrounded by a small group of people. Dangerous people. But not hostile towards him.

"Hey, Frank," Slade Wilson said.

"What. The _fuck_. Is _this_," Castle said.

"Today is your birthday, Frank," Wilson said.

Castle said nothing. He was waiting for someone to shoot him. He was waiting for this to start making sense.

"First," Wilson said, "Don't worry about anyone barging in, I bought this motel. I bought a bunch of different ones in the area and had cameras installed in them and around them. I figured you'd pick one of them to rest and prepare. That's how we knew you were here."

Castle said nothing.

"It's simple, Frank," Wilson went on, "I owe you my life. You saved my life back in 'Nam. I was stuck in a POW camp with my squad. You came in with your jarheads, killed all the VC and pulled us out. I've been looking for a way to pay you back. Life went on. We both got busy, then I had some free time. Here we are. I'm not alone as you can see."

Castle was in the presence of some of the most dangerous people in the world.

There was a man, older than him and Wilson. White, broad shouldered. Like Wilson, he had some grey in his hair. And like Wilson, he was missing one eye. Nick Fury. He started smoking his cigar.

"Castle," he said, before puffing on his cigar.

The Punisher looked around the room. There was another former comrade from Vietnam. Tall. Black. Muscular. Goatee and long dreadlocks. And wraparound sunglasses. JR Walker JR aka Shotgun.

"Mornin', Frank," he said.

Then, a tall, white, athletic, red headed woman in her trademark skin tight black outfit. Black Widow. She nodded silently.

A darker complexioned white woman with long, jet black, curly hair, dressed in red was also there. Elektra. She smiled silently.

Two more. Two he had never met before but has heard plenty about.

A white woman. Also tall and athletic. Shortly cropped blonde hair. She was wearing black fatigues. Former detective Pat Trayce, turned Vigilante. Turned mercenary head of an agency called Vigilance. If rumours were to be believed, she and Wilson had once been an item. Looking at their attitude and distance towards one another, that was over.

Lastly, a tall muscular man. More so than Castle, Shotgun or Wilson. Six and a half feet tall and close to 300 pounds. Wearing an olive green bandanna. Former Navy Seal turned top secret operative turned mercenary Michael Cray. Also known as Deathblow.

"Glad to meet you at last," he said.

Then realization hit Castle:

"You set this up, Wilson. The summit of crime bosses."

"Of course. If you're gonna prepare a surprise party for the Punisher, cake won't do it," Wilson said.

"We did think of having Elektra jump out of a cake," Shotgun said, "But that would amuse everyone _but_ you, Castle."

Elektra didn't object. She did what she always did: remain unreadable.

"Nothing amuses Castle, really," Fury said.

"But a bunch of gangsters from all over, that would get your attention," Widow said.

"How did you pull this off?" Castle asked.

Wilson smiled: "You have no idea how many times I've been asked to kill you. I may be a cold-blooded greedy killer but I have standards. You saved my life. I couldn't go after you. That did give me an idea, though. An auction. I told those assholes I would bring you alive incapacitated. Whoever paid me the most would get the chance to kill you."

"Smart," Castle conceded. He then looked around. "How did you get these people to follow?"

"Fury was the first. We saw eye to eye," Wilson said, "Sorry, easy joke. I told him about my plan. He accepted and even offered his clout to help with the feds. "

"Why?" Castle asked.

"Why the fuck not?" Fury said, "To think I tried to recruit you. You shoulda recruited me. Woulda gotten rid of more scumfucks than in my job, I'm sure."

Wilson smiled: "You'd think the head of an intelligence agency would be busy with bigger and better things to do."

"Bigger, sure," Fury said, "Better? Fuck, no. I have a choice between skipping a day being a political puppet for corrupt sacks of shit or killing a few dozen corrupt sacks of shit? Easy fuckin' decision."

"Here's the most surprising part," Wilson went on, "I thought I'd have to pay all these other people. They joined my little venture for free."

"I came here to see the big smile on your face, Frank," Shotgun said.

"I was hoping for some free cake," Widow said.

Wilson went on: "Some you've worked with. Cray and Trayce, it was curiosity."

"Back in my city," Trayce said, "When I lost someone, I took a similar path as yours. I understand where you're coming from. Not sure I would face these odds. But I would consider it, for sure."

"My old man was killed by terrorists when I was a kid," Cray said, "It's the whole reason why I became a SEAL. I understand the desire for payback. Besides, Captain, you're a legend for anyone who has ever served. The shit they say you've done in Nam...Besides, like Fury said: those guys are some evil bastards: drug dealers, human traffickers...That's some righteous killing."

"Some people sympathize with you," Wilson said, "Very few actually understand you. Most of them are here. And this is our gift: the perfect target and the perfect allies to help."

Castle nodded. There was always the chance Wilson was full of shit. He screwed those gangsters. He might do the same to the Punisher. Castle couldn't walk away from this opportunity, though.

"All right," Castle said, "What's the plan, Wilson?"

"Good old Frank. All business," Shotgun said with a chuckle.

Then, Fury spoke up: "This is where I come in. You're gonna fuckin' love this."


	4. Chapter 4

**One hour later**

**The estate**

On the luxurious estate, there was a very large manor. In that manor, over 30 crime lords were waiting for news from Deathstroke and his crazy auction. Criminals from all over the USA and from other countries as well.

Outside, a group of mercenaries were handling security duties. Sentries on foot. At the gate. Some were driving around in Jeeps on the land. Fifty in all.

Nobody would come here looking for trouble. Not even The Punisher.

When the sentries starting hearing a plane engine, they paid no attention. Until it became louder and louder. Then they saw it. And since most of the mercs were former military, they knew they weren't looking a plane.

It was an unmanned drone. Triangular in shape, about the size of a small plane. The smooth silver aircraft was coming at them.

The mercs did the job. Alerted the bosses and tried to get ready.

Something underneath the drone was deployed.

An M61 20 mm Vulcan machine gun.

It opened fire.

100 rounds per second.

First, it destroyed the gate. The six men guarding the gate were blasted into shapeless red meat.

Then, it strafed the roving guard's vehicles and the men inside. The sentries on foot could also not resist the onslaught. They tried, firing rounds from M4s and AK47s at the drone. To no effect. The deafening thunder from the Vulcan pierced the as the rounds pierced flesh, bone, steel, glass and Kevlar.

A security car exploded. And another.

After less than a minute of relentless pounding, the 50 mercenaries were gone. Some, literally.

Then, the limos in which the bosses and their entourage arrived were being destroyed. Dozens of luxury cars turned to scrap metal.

Same with the four helicopters that were on landing areas on the vast lawn.

Then, the drone flew away. Its cannon was out of ammo.

Inside the mansion, there was fear, but not panic. Over 200 hardened criminals. Armed. War tested. Bloodied. Ready. They weren't expecting this, but they understood double-crosses. They understood violence. They knew The Punisher could show up heavily armed to a meeting like this. It has happened countless times before. This was nothing new or original.

They looked on the widescreen security monitors.

They saw four black SUVs approaching. High speed. That too, was typical. Nothing was novel about that approach. Something was happening to the roofs of the vehicles. Something was deployed.

They recognized it.

Stinger missile launchers. One on each truck.

A second later, four Stingers were fired. They found the outside wall nearest the very large conference room where the crime lords were gathered.

Soon, they saw the invaders get out of the SUVs. It was much worse than they thought.

Elektra. Black Widow. Shotgun. Nick Fury. Deathblow. Pat Trayce, former Vigilante. Deathstroke. And The Punisher.

Then, finally, some started to panic.

**Outside the mansion**

The Punisher and his allies were on foot heading towards the breach.

Fury had used his clout to keep the authorities away from the kill zone and provide the drone. He let Frank have the honors of actually handling the drone with a game console looking gadget to take out the mercs and the vehicles.

It _was_ his birthday after all.

Castle and Fury were carrying the M4 fitted with the 40 mil launcher. Both with 90 round rum mags.

Wilson had a SAW machine gun in 5,56 with a 200 round box magazine.

Shotgun was carrying twin SPAS automatic shotguns.

Trayce was carrying a 9mm Calico submachine with 100 round magazine.

Black Widow had an MP-5K in 9mm.

Deathblow had the most interesting primary weapon: an M-60, the door gunner model, fitted with an MM1 grenade launcher underneath. He was also wearing his war paint: two crimson parallel vertical lines on his face. The distance between the lines was the same that the distance between his eyes.

Elektra was wearing a crimson skintight tight outfit, not unlike Widow's. It was body armor. A gift from Widow. She carried twin fully automatic Glock 18s. And shuriken. And her sais. She'd said she didn't need any more. She was sure the enemy would be generous enough to donate weapons. The others agreed.

Deathblow was smiling. Trayce noticed. She asked:

"You happy about this, Cray? Killing people makes you smile?"

"It's not that. Not exactly," Cray said, "This is what I'm good at. Combat. This is what I'm built for. I'm here with a serious crew of bad-asses that have my back and we're gonna end some very nasty people. I don't enjoy killing. But this, this feels like...home."

"Reminds you of Team 7?" Fury said.

Castle knew of Team 7. He heard of them, at least. Though they were many years after his time in the service. Specialists from different branches of the military brought together to pull off impossible jobs.

"Yeah," Cray said, "Exactly. Through the good times and bad, best crew I ever worked with."

Cray looked at his allies. "Though this little squad might be somethin' else."

They approached the breach. The Punisher and Deathstroke exchanged a glance and a nod. They all put on ear protection.

And the war started.

Cray, Castle and Fury started with 40 mil frags. Shotgun joined in with some high explosive shotgun shells. Then the others joined in. Deathstroke offered some sustained fired while Widow, Trayce and Elektra split up, taking advantage of the confusion to do some up close work.

While checking his targets and his ammo, Castle sometimes took a second to watch his allies.

Elektra seemed to dance around her opponents. She as here and there and the enemy never knew where she would strike from. With guns, sais, shuriken, or well placed kicks to the throat.

Widow and Trayce were surgeon like and precise. Seeking cover. Never using more than two double taps per target.

Shotgun's shotguns were booming like thunder, blasting thugs and bosses into hamburger.

Fury also seemed right at home, matter-of-factly dispatching tangos with his rifle. Well placed bursts or rifle stock strikes to the neck. And sometimes, some nasty insult.

Then, Castle saw Cray stand on the solid oak conference table and heard him bellow: "Get some! Get some!" while hosing down gangsters with his M-60 with near gleeful abandon. Cray seemed like a fearless hard charger.

Wilson lost his weapon at some point and had his large broadsword out. Castle saw him twirl that thing around and behead three men, dismember four and kick a man's head clean off with a roundhouse.

Soon, The Punisher was down to his secondary weapons: twin Uzis. Not exactly precision tools but it wasn't really needed in this context. At one point, Wilson had twin .50 Action Desert Eagles. Deathstroke and Punisher were back to back. After a few shots and eight dead mobsters:

"How ya like your birthday party, Frank?" Wilson asked, throwing his empty pistols into two thug throats and pulling out two more Eagles.

"It's productive," Castle answered emptying the last of rounds from his Uzis into four men. "Many of these scum have been out of my reach." He let go of an Uzi quickly and reloaded the other one.

"You're welcome," Wilson said, with a smile in his voice.

And the killing went on...


	5. Chapter 5

**Later**

**The Motel**

In the bar section, Punisher, Deathstroke and the rest of the group united for food and drink.

This was surreal and ridiculous. All this. For him. His birthday. A murderous vigilante. Fury soon got everyone's attention.

"Everyone, listen up," Fury said, "I ain't good with speeches, so I'll be brief. I joined the service to protect and defend by country. Most of you became what you became for the same reason. Sometimes, we lose our way. Because of politics and all that bullshit, what we do becomes tainted."

Castle saw Cray and Widow agree with emphatic nods.

"Not Castle," Fury said, "Castle is a lot of things, but tainted ain't one of them. I saw him work in Nam. I saw him work after. The Punisher is born from something truly awful but it is something we need. Pure. Deadly. Slaying the monsters that need slaying. Not for money, not for glory, not for politics. But because it needs to be done."

Fury rose his beer bottle.

"Here's to you, Frank," Fury said, "For your birthday and your 40 years of Punishing. Carry on and keep killing those motherfuckers."

"Hear, hear," the rest of the group said.

"Fuck, yeah," Cray said, "Any more parties like this one, count me in."

Castle nodded. Wilson was right. He was with people that understood him and what he was about.

Wilson and Castle were outside. It was evening. The air was cool.

"Thanks, Wilson," Castle said.

"No problem," Wilson said.

"This mean we're even after this?" Castle said, "For the right price you'll come after me?"

Slade looked at Castle and said nothing. Castle said nothing either. Then, after a while:

"Yeah," Castle said.

Another silence. Then:

"Evening, boys," they heard from behind.

It was Elektra. Wilson smiled and rose his beer at Castle and went back inside.

"You're not used to this," Elektra said.

"What?"

"People doing things for you."

Castle said nothing.

"It's not over," Elektra said.

"What isn't?" Castle asked.

"Your birthday," Elektra answered, "You have one more gift to unwrap."

He looked at her. Her eyes told the tale.

They moved away from the party.

The War could wait a few hours.

**THE END**

This story is dedicated to Gerry Conway and (most of) the writers and artists who have worked on the Punisher for the past 40 years. Here's hoping for more good stories.

It is also dedicated to the fans.

Keep Punishing, Frank!


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